Do No Harm
by HearSheGoes
Summary: **An I Love You post-mortem** There wasn't enough catgut in the world to suture their friendship. The 'I love yous' cut too deep. Molly knew that. But she was a doctor. She was sworn, by oath, to try. "...And whatsoever I shall see or hear...I will never divulge, holding such things to be holy secrets." But the thing he'd said - the thing she'd heard - was no longer a secret
1. From The Start

From The Start

 **Chapter Summary: 8 hours after I Love You + years before...**

Molly Hooper sat alone in her office, desperately trying to focus on the screen in front of her. Failing miserably. It was the easiest thing in the world to do: Hit _send_ , salvage their friendship. Hit _send_ and they'd be right as rain.

 _Wrong,_ the buzzing in her brain warned.

Only it wasn't buzzing. It was a voice. Set on endless loop.

I love you…

His voice.

"Hit _send_ , Hooper," she whispered. "Everything'll go back to normal."

I love you…

That wasn't their 'normal'.

Molly laughed at the absurdity. She'd spent years willing Sherlock to say those words to her, ever since their first meeting at St. Bart's…

She was junior doctor, in her third year of specialized pathology training, happily up to her elbows in a lorry accident victim when Sherlock stormed through the morgue doors. The tails of his enormous black coat and Mr. Tomlin, Bart's director of credentialing and governance, trailed behind him. The mortuary didn't receive many hospital administrators. Nor did it play host to 6-foot tall, beautiful strangers possessing skin bordering on preternatural. Something deep inside Molly's belly fluttered at the sight of him.

And quickened when she registered his lush bottom lip.

And pooled between her legs after catching a glimpse of his very prominent clavicle. Molly harbored an indecent fetish centered around clavicles.

His was superb.

She'd almost forgotten about Mr. Tomlin until she heard him gasp at the sight of her, a lacerated kidney in her hand. Sherlock, however, didn't flinch. He crossed the room, hands clasped behind his back, in two smooth strides and stood on the opposite side of the autopsy table. Without so much as a "hello" in her direction, he bent over the body for a closer inspection.

Infuriating. What a downright pompous man.

Infuriating, pompous man with an absolutely lovely mole just under his right ear.

Molly couldn't help herself from leaning in. Sherlock's scent wrapped around her - posh soap and something dangerous - pulled her down as if by a string. More like rope, dragging her down to him. Impossible to break free of. She was so startled when he looked up at her, looked _into_ her, with blue eyes as deep and cool as a glacial lake, she nearly dropped the kidney.

"Oh! I..um…I…I should probably put this…down...otherwise the cleaning crew'll have kidney pie all over the floor!" She'd snorted. Loudly. In front of him.

Sherlock made no attempt to ease her embarrassment. He merely stood up and watched. Her. "Great," she mumbled, fumbling around for a clean specimen pan, hoping he'd direct that laser beam focus elsewhere.

Yet she wanted to remain the center of his attention. Indefinitely.

 _What was wrong with her?!_ He wasn't her type.

In just three minutes, he'd already proven himself to be an infuriating, pompous…probably posh arse given his coat and suit. And scent. What kind of man doesn't at least say "hello" upon entering a room?

Infuriating pompous men with eyes now more green than blue, she noted. The change intrigued her more than she cared to admit. Molly momentary lost herself in his gaze, watching the colors of his irises dance and shift until she felt her face flush.

"Oh shite," she whispered. Molly knew she was no beauty. Short, constantly tongue-tied and supremely uncoordinated when out of her lab coat, she didn't normally garner such interest from beautiful men. Not even the prats. And now her body decided to crank up the humiliation, breaking out in its signature wave of red splotches.

"Well, then, Miss Hooper, I'd like to introduce a new...associate to you."

 _Associate?_

"This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

 _Sherlock?_ Yep, she called it: Posh.

"Mr. Holmes, this is Miss Hooper —"

"Molly," she corrected, smiling brightly despite the warm stinging of her cheeks. "You can call me Molly." She thrust a hand in his direction, instantly regretting her eagerness to touch his skin. And more than a little put off when he made no move to shake her hand in return.

 _Oh, come on!_ Either she was being played or this tosser was a legitimate sociopath.

She raised her chin at him, stretching her arm out even further. A challenge, daring him to defy social convention with Mr. Tomlin so nearby.

Sherlock blinked, sliding his eyes down to her hand and, slowly, back to her face. The corner of his mouth twitched upward in amusement.

 _He was just her type._

No! He wasn't. Absolutely not. Molly raged against the thought and pulled back, about to launch into an obscenity-laden dressing down, Mr. Tomlin be damned. She caught sight of her hand. Her _gloved_ hand. Covered in blood and bits of kidney tissue.

Dear god. Could this afternoon get any worse? Spontaneous combustion seemed to be the only reasonable way out - literally dying from embarrassment.

Mr. Tomlin seemed not to notice. The nattering man was utterly oblivious to her discomfort. Sherlock's mouth stretched into a wide, tight-lipped grin, and still he said nothing to her. Tomlin continued with his introductions, after which he instructed Molly to afford the apparent graduate chemist every courtesy, skimming over Sherlock's vague ties to Scotland Yard and an older brother with some authority in the British government. _All_ the authority in the British government, she'd find out soon enough.

"Well, then. I'll leave the two of you to get better acquainted," the nervous little man yipped and scurried off. Most likely to vomit in the morgue's anteroom.

Sherlock barely acknowledged Mr. Tomlin's exit. Seconds seemed to tick into minutes. He'd yet to utter a word. He simply watched her as though she were under glass. Years later, she'd identify that look as Sherlock's intense interest in her rather than the abject disdain she assumed it at their first encounter.

Molly rushed to cover the furious beating of her heart. "Don't suppose he's keen on kidney pie, then," she snorted. Again.

 _Shite._ She should really stop talking… "Perhaps I should've offered him the liver —"

"Tell me, Miss Hooper," he interrupted, "do you moonlight as a comedian?"

His voice rumbled through her. Low in timbre but easily filling the room, it unnerved Molly in a not altogether unpleasant way. Imperious arse. She was a credentialed doctor for goodness sakes! She didn't have time to nurse a graduate chemist with a hobby! No matter how gorgeous.

"What? Comedian? Me? I'm a doctor," she stuttered. "I'm in my third, no fourth, wait, third —"

"It a requires a simple yes or no, Miss Hooper."

Was he kidding her? Surely he must be kidding. He was, what, a year older than her? Maybe two, she guessed. Who walks around in a suit jacket and tailored trousers at that age? Self-important bastard. And what's with the ludicrous overcoat? Did he fancy himself a vampire or something? And that ridiculous head of hair… don't posh boys own mirrors and combs - in multiple rooms of their Sloane Square townhomes?

Her fingers twitched. She was suddenly assaulted by an overwhelming need to bury them in those very same curls - curls she knew would feel like spun silk - and dig her fingernails deep into his scalp.

She also had an urge to slap him right across the cheek - hard - marking his alabaster skin with her handprint.

Laying claim to those cheekbones and that sharp nose.

"I…I don't understand," was all she could muster.

He didn't respond, making her think _he_ didn't understand.

"Well, no matter," he huffed, "If the answer's 'yes', I suggest you consider other hobbies. if the answer's 'no', i'm inclined to thank you for not pursuing any of the comedic arts. Jokes aren't really your area of expertise, are they… _Mol-ly?"_

He drew out the syllables of her name longer than necessary, boldly caressing them before letting them land, almost tenderly. at her feet. In that moment, Molly would've given him 'every courtesy'. And more. Much more.

He turned and stalked toward the mortuary door. "I'll be in next week to run a few experiments. How does Tuesday suit?"

The emotional whiplash made Molly dizzy. Her brain desperately tried to work out a biting response to their exchange. She followed him to the door to…what? Stop him? Berate him?

Kiss him? He was an absolute shite.

And she was going to tell him just that.

Sherlock stopped short and spun round to face her, the suddenness nearly forcing Molly out of her sensible professional clogs. He looked down at her. "Oh, and I'll need a few things. A reasonably fleshy, and very fresh, cadaver for one. And an assistant." There it was again, that twitch at the corner of his mouth and the corresponding flutter in her belly. "Mr. Tomlin mentioned the interns might be at my disposal but —" He paused, letting the room go perfectly silent. "— I'd prefer it if we kept my visits just between us. I like to know I can count on my assistant and working with a different surrogate each time just makes my work more frustrating. So, the cadaver and you, _Molly Hooper_." He turned back toward the door and pushed through, leaving her no opening to object.. From halfway down the hall, he added, "I'll bring my own riding crop. Afternoon."

...

 _So long ago..._ The computer's cursor blinked furiously, returning Molly to the present, She smiled ruefully. How was it she remembered every detail about their first quarter hour together - and nothing of the rest of that week? Strange, considering it included a mini-break holiday with her dad and her cousin's wedding.

All she remembered was Sherlock…and the agony of counting down the slow hours until he returned to the morgue the following Tuesday. With his own riding crop.

Nine years had passed between them since that first afternoon.

And two I love yous.

Three if she counted his instructions to her. _"Just say these words..."_

Four, if Molly counted her own reply.

No matter how she did the math, the sum total hurt like hell.

Molly hit _send._


	2. Prior & After

Prior / After

 **Chapter Summary - 5 hours prior to I Love You & 10 hours after I Love You**

 **PRIOR**

Molly's day was off to a winning start.

An overnight power surge took out the electric to the entire flat. Now, instead of quietly observing the anniversary of her father's death, alone, she was dodging two burly repairmen who'd laid siege to her kitchen.

"Apologies, miss, but she's gonna take a couple a' hours," said the one with the snake tattoo peeking out from his long shirtsleeve.

"Well, um, could you, maybe, fix one room first so I could camp out in there while you get the rest of the flat up and running?" Molly hadn't planned on leaving the house today, at least not until her overnight at Bart's. And at least not until she'd had a good cry about her da.

"Oh, 'fraid not. Gotta keep the whole place offline 'til we're done. Don't wanna blow anyone up now, do we," the one with the glass eye winked at her.

Knackered and in no mood to decamp, Molly sighed, "What am I supposed to do, then?"

"Why don't you go grab a nice cuppa down at the shops, have a 'girl's day'," Snake Arm offered cheerily. "I'll text you when we've wrapped up."

"Then you can come back and stay put," Glass Eye chimed in. "Don't worry about a thing, Miss. East Wind Electric'll take care of everything."

What choice did she have but to follow their suggestion? She'd been lucky to find them on such short notice to begin with. No use hampering their progress moping around while they made repairs.

Molly pulled her hair back into a pony, grabbed her laptop and headed off to the Birchwood for the largest cup of coffee she could buy.

(at the Birchwood w/ a nice cuppa)

 _Congratulations Miss Hooper…_

The email should've buoyed Molly's spirits. She'd been downright chuffed that her white paper had been chosen as a first alternate for the annual pathology conference. The presentation slots were extremely limited - only ten available for all of the EU division - and her's had survived a rigorous vetting to make alternate. If any of the marquee EU presentations failed to meet standards, she'd get the call to present. In Hong Kong. Early next week.

That was _before_. Before Sherlock arranged for her to fetch him from the suburbs in an ambulance.

 _…as their paper has been disqualified, we extend the invitation to you - as first alternate - to present in their place on behalf of the EU division…_

 _Before_ she conducted the physical. Before her hands and her heart shook with each new track mark she discovered on his emaciated body. Before he shot her a look, equal parts warning and plea, on his way into Culverton Smith's office.

 _… pleased to welcome you to Hong Kong on Monday. You'll have the next day to acclimate before enjoying the opening reception on Tuesday evening…_

 _Before_ she joined John and him at Bea's Cake Shop, pretending to enjoy the Victoria sponge she'd ordered for his birthday. Molly knew full well he preferred the triple chocolate ganache but Sherlock didn't need the additional stimulant. Sponge with fruit filling was passive aggressive punishment. And Sherlock dutifully accepted his penance. "Ah, Victoria sponge. My favorite. However did you know, Molly?"

 _…round table discussions for the entirety of the day on Wednesday and Thursday…_

She was scared witless for him. He'd been declared clean after a physician-monitored detox but he was, Molly knew, still reeling from Mary's death and the fallout it caused. Leaving London now for the conference and its subsequent tour would mean three weeks away.

 _…your presentation on Friday afternoon…_

Three weeks was too long to spend away from a friend so desperately in need - especially a friend intent on telling her, _proving_ to her, that he was 'just fine.'"

 _…travel with members of the EU delegation for subsequent presentations in Hanoi…_

She was angry as hell at him! How many times would he risk his health, his sanity, his _sobriety_? Prior to Mary's death, he'd succumbed to his addiction only as a _substitute_ for 'the game.'

This Culverton Smith business was the first time he'd ever shot up to _play_ the game.

No it wasn't, she admitted to herself. He'd done it before. _Magnussen_. And she'd called him out for it. Molly still felt the sting of her palm striking his face. She'd never been so angry at anyone before in her life.

She'd never been so frightened of her emotions. Or of his. Sherlock looked downright pitiful that day. He'd avoided eye contact with her while she confronted him about the chemicals in his system and the harm he'd done to himself, his friends. The first slap unleashed an avalanche of emotion within her. Anger, fear, disappointment, worry. Love. Sherlock made no attempt to block her second strike. Or her third.

 _…culminating in the week-long international conference in Singapore…_

Had she known then that he would to be sent away - for good, _forever_ \- after that...she would've still yelled at him. Then she would've done what she'd been aching to do since the moment they met: Pull him close, wrap her arms and legs around his loneliness, his fear. Never let him go.

Instead, here they were again, at the intersection of self-harm and collateral damage.

 _…advise us of your intent to participate by noon tomorrow…_

Sherlock couldn't seem to stop hurting himself or the people who loved him. Molly didn't need to be here for it. She could accept the invitation. _Should_ accept. It would be the highlight of her career thus far.

Molly sighed. She reasoned It was the low point of their friendship. Not much lower it could sink. Leaving him alone for a few weeks wasn't going to have much of an impact. It hadn't in the past. She could heal her own wounds, on her own terms, while someone else nursed Sherlock's track marks and psyche for a change.

But John had his own wounds to heal, in addition to caring for Rosie…

Molly had no one. Not really. Except the three of them. John needed her to help pick up the emotional slack where Rosie was concerned - though he'd never ask it of her.

She should stay. For Rosie. For John.

For Sherlock.

Molly closed her laptop and settled back into the chair. It was almost 1pm. She had just under twenty four hours to make her decision. She'd get through her overnight shift and reply in the morning. Right now, all she wanted to do was go home, put on some of her dad's favorite music and ask him for guidance. If the guys back at her flat could just finish already...

Her mobile vibrated, in answer to her prayers...well, at least _one_ of her prayers. She'd figure out the answers to the others herself.

 _All set Miss._  
 _Have a lovely rest of your day._  
 _\- East Wind Electric_

* * *

 **AFTER**

 _I love you._

A _whoosh!_ signaled that Molly's email was on its way, audible confirmation. Her decision regarding the upcoming Pathology conference was the correct one.

She squeezed her eyes shut. The dark behind her lids, the quiet hum of Bart's in the small hours of the morning, did nothing to drown out the sound his voice. If anything, the lack of noise only amplified Sherlock's rich baritone. She wasn't stuck on the mechanical response to her ultimatum. That first _I love you_ was delivered by a man so skeptical of the sentiment that even saying the words to play "the game" (whatever game he was involved in), clearly pained him.

How easy it was for her to imagine Sherlock looking down at his mobile, incredulous, hoping he'd misunderstood her demand that he _say it like he meant it._ Her mind conjured up his fine, lean face, speeding through the range of expressions he generally reserved for the ordinary people in his life. Like John. Like herself. The perturbed crease in his brow. The agitated quirk of his mouth. That trademark eye roll. Molly's side of their bargain most definitely garnered her an eye roll, of that she was sure.

Had her heart not ached, Molly would've smiled at his discomfort.

It was the additional _I love you_ \- unnecessary and unadorned - clouding her judgement. Sherlock didn't whisper, as though the words were a secret he found too distasteful to share. Nor did he make a bold statement, arrogant and rushed, like the man himself.

That _I love you_ was pure Sherlock. A deduction. The only explanation of all the facts. And, like so many of the other deductions he'd made throughout his life, he'd arrived at it with help.

 _Her_ help.

That realization was as heady to her as the sentiment itself. _She_ coaxed it from his lips. Not John. Not Mary. Not the dead woman with no face in the morgue. Speaking to him over mobile, Molly couldn't look into those crystalline eyes, watch his emotions form the words.

That obstructed view made the truth easier for her to see. _Feel._

Sherlock's words were a caress, not an appeasement. The physical separation afforded each of them the privacy they needed to make a public declaration. In the safety of his _I love you,_ Molly laid herself bare, finally shrugging off the weight of her burden and setting it down between them.

Now it belonged to both of them. She'd gotten so used to carrying it by herself…

And then her mobile went dead, leaving her alone. Again.

She'd learned how to navigate her love for Sherlock, alone. It was rocky but she'd developed sure-footed techniques for maneuvering around her heart's roadblocks; cheerily dating other men and truly happy to be one of the few of people included in the camaraderie of 221b.

A warm affinity for Sherlock the _person_ , an emotion she associated with being a grown-up, had finally supplanted her earlier romantic daydreams of Sherlock the _man._

No it hadn't.

It just crowded alongside her other feelings and threatened to burst her heart.

There was nothing to protect her from Sherlock's _I love you._ Nothing to strengthen her tenuous hold on their friendship. They were in free fall now.

"Christ, this day." Molly exhaled deeply and opened her eyes. She had to get back to the juniors under her tutelage. Slogging through the final hours of their first overnight, they'd probably appreciate a dose of encouragement. Molly retrieved her mobile from inside the drawer into which it had been banished and reluctantly took it off mute.

The voicemail icon flashed next to Greg's number.

Molly hit play, eager for a distraction. With any luck, he was on his way in, accompanied by a particularly gruesome case, proving his oft-repeated point that nothing good happens after midnight. God bless him, he knew how to cheer up a pathologist

…It's Sherlock…

"So much for a distraction," she grumbled.

…Nothing _physically_ wrong, Molly. Just, well, it's quite a thing…

Normally articulate Greg, rambling.

 _…_ _Sherrinford…Mycroft and John…_

Greg was racing to get all the details out before her voicemail cut off. It made Molly mildly uncomfortable.

…cameras in the kitchen of your flat…

What? Now she incredibly worried. For all of them.

…a sister. Eurus. Apparently means "East Wind." Eurus Holmes…

"Oh my god," she shot up out of her chair, "the repairmen!"

…a psychological experiment…broke him a bit, I think, Molly…

Sherlock's voice invaded her head again... _I love you._

…Look, it's too much to go into. I'm an hour out. I'll stop by Bart's on my way back to the Yard…

Molly checked the timestamp: 3:32am. It was It now 4:45am. She raced back to the lab.


	3. Heart In Hand

"Oh. It's _you._ "

Sherlock's body reacted to Molly's voice before his brain could catch up, his coat tail swinging around behind him. The sudden movement almost knocked a tray of slides off the lab's center counter, an obnoxious rattle upsetting the room's working quiet.

Molly's tone upset _him._

"You were expecting someone else."

" _Anyone_ else." she exhaled, an echo of that too recent day in front of the Watson's, after Mary's death.

Sherlock felt a vague tightness in his chest at the reproach. He wasn't sure what he was expecting but it wasn't this, her...displeasure. With _him._

He should've expected it. A quick analysis of their acquaintance substantiated what he feared to be the truth: He'd disappointed her, again and again.

No. Not acquaintance. Their _friendship._

By her grace, Molly'd welcomed him into her heart as a friend. And he'd given her nothing in return. Not what she deserved, anyway.

She looked exhausted, her deep brown eyes ringed with smudges of mascara. Strands of chestnut hair had come loose from her ponytail.

 _Beautiful._

He smiled and waited for her inevitable approach to his corner of the lab, anticipating the way her scent - lilies of the valley and sanitizing alcohol - filled the space around him.

Molly folded her arms across her chest and kept her distance.

Again, Sherlock's body responded, stepping toward her, before receiving the marching orders from his brain. He suddenly craved the ambient heat he'd come to associate with her nearness. The warmth he felt while she was busy hovering at his elbow or working alongside him in companionable silence. He'd taken it for granted, that she'd always make herself available to him whenever he visited the lab.

Sherlock pushed the thought aside, If he could get Molly alone, he'd regain control of this situation. "Shall we..."" he nodded, inviting her to step into the hallway.

Molly smiled without a trace of joy and not at all in his direction. She evaded his approach, moving to the opposite side of the center counter. "I've been away —," she explained, "out of the lab for a bit. So I'd rather we just stay...here."

"Work never stops at the dead center of town, then?" he teased, the words landing harshly between them. Molly shot him a look which Sherlock greedily held, silently pleading with her give him just one smile.

She looked down just as the corners of her mouth kicked up. "I've got three hours of work left and only one hour to get it all finished, Sherlock. Whatever you've come here to explain, it's...it's not necessary. Greg filled me in."

"Oh. I see." There it was again, the dull ache in his chest - no doubt the waning effects of the day's adrenaline rush. He made a mental note to have John look over him. Later. Right now, he needed to be close to her.

 _And she's effectively put the counter between us._ Sherlock resisted the urge to follow her to that side. Given the events of the last few hours, he doubted he'd ever have the opportunity to feel Molly's warmth again.

 _Doubt_. He was fast becoming acquainted with the verb - and its subsequent chill.

 _You didn't deserve her tenderness before._ But she'd given it to him, anyway. Repeatedly. Now, when he wanted most to earn her smile, her amused little snorts, Molly shut him out. Her actions were impossible for him to comprehend without additional data but, somehow, Sherlock knew she had the right to keep him at arm's length.

"Sherlock...?"

"Can we...can I at least have a moment of your time," he nodded in the general direction the juniors stationed across the lab, "in privacy?"

It was a gamble, his request. If she refused, Sherlock had no alternate strategy. He'd have to respect her authority here in regard to the lab. And in regard to matters such as...this. Matters he didn't routinely traffic in. He was bone-weary and had no idea what he was doing at Bart's, why he needed to be with her before even speaking to his parents about Eurus.

 _Yes he did._

"Alright," Molly mumbled, "you can have it your way. Again." She turned her back on him and addressed the juniors in a clear voice, "Tarique? Agatha? You can call it a night. And, well done, guys. You should be quiet pleased. _I_ am. We'll finish up the slides tomorrow."

That was Molly. No matter how knackered or angry, she always had a kind word for someone else. How many times had she offered one to him?

Christ, he was an arse for even coming here.

"Oh, ok!" Tarique grabbed his lab coat and bounded out the door before Molly finished. Good. The quicker the better.

But _Agatha..._ "Are you sure, Molly?" She eyed Sherlock with disapproval. "I can stay through the end of the shift. Get the rest of these done. Hate to leave you _alone_." Her tone was solidarity, warning.

Sherlock twitched but focused all his attention on Molly, enduring Agatha's implied censure in silence.

"That's alright. I'm fine, Agatha. Thank you." She turned back to him, "Mr. Holmes is an old friend."

"Mmmhmmm..." She was unconvinced but made no attempt to question Molly further. Agatha did, however, pack up as slowly as the task would allow, clanging her way about the room and generally making as much noise as possible before exiting the lab.

Sherlock had to hand it to her, he'd used Agatha's passive aggressive tactics once or twice before, hoping to get a rise out of Molly - a mock sigh or a reprimand. Now he'd settle for her putting less emphasis on the word "friend."

Exactly _why_ he was unsure.

"Sherlock, I —"

"— Molly, I came here to— "

"Oh, sorry," she apologized, "you go ahead."

"No. No. What were you going to say?" She had no cause to apologize. Least of all to him.

Molly took a deep breath, exhaled. After what seemed like long minutes, she finally looked up, her normally animated face humorless, defeated.

He was struck with the sudden desire to cup her chin in his hands and run his thumb over her lips.

"I'm not doing this today - whatever it is," she paused, "this conversation. Not here. Not now."

The knot in Sherlock's chest reasserted itself.

And so did his urge to touch her. "Oh. Yes. You're right. Of course. You're the doctor. We both need a modicum of sleep..."

"It hasn't been the best day...for this...," she motioned between them as as her voice trailed off.

At that moment, he gave serious consideration to hopping over the counter. As tired as he was, he could do it, his six foot frame clearing the distance between them easily.

"No, it's not you...us," Molly straightened, "not all of it, anyway." Her voice was clearer, louder, as though she'd heard his thoughts and needed to stop him before he launched himself in her direction. "It's...this is never a good day."

"Ahhh." He most certainly was an arse. "Your father." "How...? Yes, how did you know?"

"Molly, we've been acquainted with each other for nine years. Why do you think I'm always in the lab on March 4?"

"Really?"

Sherlock was saddened by the note of surprise in her response.

 _Of course she's surprised. Do you blame her?_

He'd never engaged Molly in conversation about her father, never offered condolences. He simply showed up at Bart's annually, on the 4th of March, requesting her assistance with evidence. Barring any current cases, he'd concoct experiments that required a lab environment rather than the kitchen table at 221b. Sherlock assumed Molly appreciated his efforts. Work was, he found, a more productive means of dealing with emotion - _any_ emotion.

At least that was his supposition _before_ Mary died.

Now, Sherlock wasn't so sure. "I'm sorry, Molly Hooper."

She nodded and mouthed the words _thank you._ They stood across from each other like that, not saying anything more. Beyond the doors, Sherlock heard Bart's begin to stir. Soon, the daytime contingent of pathologists would descend upon lab, intruding on the companionable silence that had been restored between them, for however briefly.

As if an alarm had gone off, the hissing whirl of the lab's cooling system kicked in. It punctuated the immediacy of the moment and roused him to action. He knew what he wanted to say to her now, known it all along. He forced his brain to piece coherent sentences together from the bits of free-radical emotion floating around his heart. Sherlock steadied himself, spreading his hands wide atop the counter and took a deep breath.

"Molly, I —"

Her eyes went wide. "Oh my god! What happened to your hands?!"


	4. Hands On Heart

Molly ached to touch Sherlock the moment she'd burst through the doors and, instead of seeing Greg Lestrade, found him standing in the lab.

Considerate, straightforward Greg. He was the kind of man Molly should've been attracted to, would've been attracted to. Before.

Before a lanky, indifferent loner with alabaster skin barged into her heart.

Yes, Sherlock always spoke truthfully - often tactlessly - but he was as far from uncomplicated as a man could get.

 _Farther._

Molly crossed that distance now, _as a doctor_ she convinced herself, going up on tippy toes and stretching her small body over the counter. She pulled Sherlock's battered hands toward her for closer examination.

He didn't resist. A good sign, she thought.

Or bad.

In similar situations, he'd waved off the attention. Her worry. Now though, Sherlock met her halfway, palms up, in an uncharacteristic display of submission. His body language alarmed her. weakening her resolve to table their inevitable conversation. Both of them needed to be thinking clearly Or at least _one_ of them did.

She traced her index finger lightly over both of his thenars. Blood pooled there, at the base of his thumbs, swelling and discoloring the flesh. It would get worse before it got better, making it painful to flex the muscle. To play the violin. She lost herself in that thought, him struggling through his beloved Bach.

Pressing her palms flat against his, she let her fingers graze the sensitive skin of his wrists. How tiny her hands looked in his large, elegant ones. Even swollen, the phalanxes retained much of their fine, slender appearance. It suddenly struck her that resting in his hands was everything _she'd_ ever wanted.

Fleetingly, Molly wondered how one healed a whole heart...

Time slowed as she watched his fingers wrap around hers.

"Hssssss!" Sherlock winced just as he applied pressure. Startled, Molly abruptly returned to the task literally at hand.

"Oh, sorry!" She didn't look up at him. If she did, her eyes would give her away. Instead, she flipped his hands over and took in the damage. "Sherlock…," she whispered. Angry red welts scored the almost translucent skin. His right one boasted two jagged cuts, the edges of which had already begun to clot although the centers were still quite raw.

Molly hated to let go but he needed medical assistance, not hand-holding. When did Sherlock ever need hand-holding?

 _He always needed it._

John, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Mycroft… they could do the hand-holding.

 _He's damn grown up despite all evidence to the contrary_ , she reminded herself and set about collecting supplies to heal his physical wounds: alcohol, cotton swabs and numbing salve from the first aid kit, needle and catgut from her secret stash. The activity provided Molly with the space she needed to push worry aside and focus on the bravado that routinely landed him, and others, in harm's way. _Mary..._

"Honestly, Sherlock," she huffed, lining the supplies up on the counter. "You fancy yourself a pirate but, seriously, you're more damsel in distress." Molly motioned impatiently, a silent order to submit to her care. "What or who on earth did this to you?"

Sherlock didn't answer immediately. She could feel his eyes on her as she cleaned the first cut. For some reason, his silence irritated her.

"Well?" Her tone was more harsh than she intended.

"You." The sound was so low, she looked up to be sure it came from him.

His eyes, usually on the hard offense - cataloging responses, recording minute details - locked with hers, their icy blue soft and unguarded. The corners creased slightly as he offered her a haggard smile.

They stayed like that, his hand in hers, staring at each other until Bart's hospital-wide address system crackled to life paging someone, somewhere. Molly broke first, returning to the job of cleaning him up.

She grabbed the needle and thread. "This is going to hurt a bit…"

"Molly. There were cameras. In your kitchen —"

"— Greg told me. Well, he left me a message. Said he was coming down. Which reminds me, where is he? He should've been here — "

"— I intercepted. Mycroft needs someone to look after him."

She said nothing. The thought of Mycroft needing _anyone_ worried her. The thought of Greg being that anyone made her foolishly happy for some reason. She'd allow herself time to picture the myriad scenarios Sherlock's statement conjured later. For now, she concentrated on his hand, puncturing the skin with her needle. If it hurt, Sherlock didn't show it. Not unusual, given his current state. He must be exhausted.

"Three, four stitches is all it should take —"

"— Molly."

"— and then I'll send you home with a bit of the topical we've stashed in the lab —"

" — Molly, please."

God! If he would just stop saying her name in that way! Gentle. Uncertain...

"Sherlock. I…I know you were forced to say... _it._ Under duress. You don't need to explain." She snipped the thread on her first set of stitches and moved, efficiently, to the second gash.

"— But I'm going to —"

"- I'm leaving for Hong Kong," she blurted, in an effort to stop him from going further.

A beat.

"Ah. The white paper then?"

"Yep," she replied, forcing her voice to sound bright.

"Congratulations. It's an exceptional piece of research, Molly."

"You've read it then?"

"You sound surprised. I should be offended." His mocking was meant to tease.

"Yes. No. It's just…" She trailed off. Would he ever stop surprising her? He made it difficult to be angry with him, to want to put space and time between them.

"Of course I read it. Twice."

The second injury required only two stitches. Molly finished the sutures and let go of his hand, instantly missing the weight of it.

"Yes, well, thank you. I'm just first alternate but —"

"- You're not "just" anything _Molly Hooper_."

The sentiment in his tone went straight to her heart. She rushed to save him from saying more, to save herself from hearing more. "You're good as new now," she smiled, knowing full well both hands, but especially his right, hurt like hell, numbing gel or no.

"So they are..." Sherlock flexed his hands tentatively and blanched with the effort. His legs buckled underneath him and Molly watched in horror as he disappear behind the counter.

"Jesus! Sherlock!" If she wasn't so short, Molly would've jumped over the counter to reach him. Racing around to the other side seemed to take her forever. Once there, she slid down by his side. Sherlock was conscious but slouching over, his long frame nearly sprawled out across the tile floor.

Molly hoisted him back up, forcing him to lean against her, the angle making her slightly taller than he. Sighing, Sherlock sank into her shoulder and closed his eyes.

"Damn," she fumbled for her mobile, realizing she'd left it on the counter. Their position made it awkward for her to reach inside Sherlock's coat pocket and retrieve his. She needed to call John, needed to get Sherlock into a cab and home to Baker Street. Once there, Mrs. Hudson could administer tea and good biscuits. John would make sure Sherlock stayed in bed for the next week.

And yet she could think of nothing but staying there on the floor, bearing his weight and listening to his shallow breathing, indefinitely.

After too brief a moment, he spoke.

Eyes still closed, he murmured into her shoulder, "What I said, Molly…I meant it."

She inhaled, held it. Turning her head, she pressed her lips against his temple and exhaled, "I know. I heard you." Her voice was weak, these last hours pummeling her as much as they had him.

Sherlock grunted in amusement, a sound she'd heard him make so many times before upon making a particularly satisfying deduction, "I'm told by John that admissions such as mine are generally met with enthusiasm, not abject...despair."

He looked up at her with those piercing blue eyes, laying himself completely at her mercy. It was, Molly knew, an unfamiliar position for him. And her heart burst for it.

"— Sherlock, I love you —"

"— Oh, there we go then," he interrupted, employing a trace of his usual self-satisfaction.

Molly wasn't having any of it. She'd come this far. She was going to push through. "But I have to live with _me_. Sherlock. I've had this in my heart for nine years. Had you in my heart for nine years," Molly heard herself saying the words, the sentences as comforting as Sherlock's body against her, "When I was alone, I loved you. When I was with other men, I loved you. When you treated me horribly I loved you." She felt him stiffen. "I hated you too, but I loved you. When you disappointed me, I loved you —"

" — I've been getting a lot of that lately," he said ruefully. But he didn't look away. He took in everything she said.

"You've had to live with this," Molly motioned between them, "your realization for, what, ten hours?"

"Eleven hours and forty-seven minutes," he corrected her.

Molly couldn't help it. She laughed so boisterously she snorted for the first time days. Sherlock laughed back, flashing a hearty smile at her. In years past, his genuine response would've thwarted her resolve to continue. She was older now. And she knew what she wanted. More importantly, she knew _why_ she wanted it. She wanted him, but not when his sister had forced his hand, forced him to admit he wanted her in return. Quite literally, by the looks of his wounds. That unguarded grin was her strength. It was worth the pain of right now to have _that_ Sherlock forever, the one ready to face his feelings - and hers - honestly.

That Sherlock wasn't here tonight, might never materialize. But she couldn't hold onto this version. This Sherlock was weak, too vulnerable to think clearly about a set of emotions he hadn't thought about in his nearly four decades on earth.

She soldiered on, "Yes, well… for once in your life, you've encountered something you can't deduce your way out of, Sherlock. We're not a case for you to solve. I'm not an experiment or client."

He blinked at her and Molly could see his mind working, unaccustomed to this emotional confusion.

She felt sorry for him. Achingly so. He'd gone a lifetime never feeling the acute pain of romantic heartbreak. He was out of his depths.

 _Good._ He needed to take his knocks like the _ordinary people_. "You've got to feel your way 'round it, Sherlock," she shrugged. "And you can't do that in an overnight. Surprisingly, neither can I. I need time. I need breathing room —"

" — Molly, neither the air nor the population density of Hong Kong are conducive for —"

"— Alright, Sherlock," she cut him a sharp look, her tone dripping in mock displeasure. "I can see you're well enough to pour into a cab." Molly gave him a playful shove and got to her feet. Offering him a hand, she asked, "Where's John?"

"At Baker Street." Sherlock took her assistance and pulled himself up to his full height. He held her hand in his and Molly made no move to protest. "Rosie spent the day with Mrs. Hudson so they've camped out there."

Molly nodded. "OK. Let's get you home to bed."

Sherlock raised a brow and flashed his tight-lipped grin. The suggestion in it was one that, prior to tonight, would've been unimaginable. Still was.

 _Because_ of tonight, Molly knew Sherlock was dead tired and beyond ready for sleep, nothing more, despite the beat of his pulse in her hand. Regardless of her desire to accompany him up the stairs of 221b.

If she didn't let go soon, she just might do it...

The doors to the lab swung open. "Oh, Miss Hooper…sorry! I didn't know anyone was still here. Thought the overnight had already gone up to the lockers."

Molly slipped from Sherlock's grasp but didn't look away from him. "Oh, James. Hi. Just wrapping things up and then I'm taking Mr. Holmes home to bed."


	5. The Data Makes No Sense

" _Molly. Please!"_

He was dreaming. He knew this because somewhere, in the back of his mind, a voice kept repeating " _I love you I love you I love you..."_ Molly's voice. But the image behind his eyelids was of an explosion, running on a concurrent loop. He'd fought against sleep for hours, but finally lost the battle shortly after leaving St. Bart's.

Sherlock hated dreaming.

The sweet oblivion he received from shooting up was one he could rely on. The visions were phantasmagoric in the extreme, making even the most harrowing of them easy to ride, enjoy - or at least get lost in. When he was high, his subconscious created an animated short or a Buñuel for him to watch. Nothing was real enough for him to _feel._ He was just an observer even when he was the star.

By contrast, dreams took the very same data from his subconscious and ran it through the filter of raw emotion, his heart. Every frame, every word refracted through the prism of his fear, shame, sorrow. _Love_. In dreams, Sherlock was forced to participate in the narrative to the point of feeling pain.

And it frightened him.

" _Sherlock?"_

Molly wore the spectrum of Sherlock's emotions in those dreams. He was ashamed of his disregard for her, treatment he convinced himself was ultimately, _selflessly,_ for her benefit. He couldn't outrun the sadness he felt every time he used her flat, as a bolthole, and discovered telltale signs of another man's presence. He feared he'd made a grievous mistake, hours ago, when he uttered that second I love you. He couldn't take it back and it might've destroyed whatever this was between them, the long-established distance that felt closer to intimacy than anything he'd ever had with a woman.

And he loved her.

" _Sherlock."_

She whispered his name in that way, the last hard consonants floating breathlessly from her mouth. _Sherlohhhhck_. He liked that most of all, when she said his name. Even when she was angry with him. Softer than even his best dressing gown. And he was going to tell her just that. Even if it was only in a dream. Reach out to her, hold her, tell her —

"Sherlock! Sherlock what are you doing? Wake up would you!" Molly shoved at him, her hand slipping past his shoulder and connecting squarely with his nose.

"OUCH!" Sherlock's eyes flew open as his head bounced against the taxi's back window. Instinctively, he felt for his nose, forgetting his stiff hands, the stitches, the raw cuts. "What'd you do that for?" The pain in his hands throbbed. "Owww!"

"You ok, Miss?" The taxi driver took his eyes of the road for a second at the commotion coming

from his back seat.

"Is _she_ okay?" Sherlock whined, " _I'm_ the one being assaulted." He rested his head back again and shut his eyes. "I'm seeing stars for god's sake."

Molly ignored him, "I'm fine Aarti. Thank you."

"OK. You just let me know. I can pull over and dump him out if he gets fresh again, Miss."

"Thank you. He's mostly all mouth and no trousers."

Sherlock turned and fixed Molly with one glittering eye. "One day, Miss Hooper, I shall prove you wrong."

"I'd like to see you try it." she countered, her words clipped and her face hard. He knew when to leave well enough alone.  
But he couldn't.  
"I...I think you dislodged something," he sulked. "I think I need a _doctor._ "

Molly kneeled up on the seat, hovering above his face and scowled. If Aarti could take a sharp corner right about now, he thought, this whole business would effectively be taken out of both their hands and placed squarely with more agreeable body parts.

"Move your hand," she swatted at him, "let me see —"  
"— Owww! Clearly a bedside manner isn't required in the morgue."

She set her fingers roughly along the bridge of his nose, avoiding eye contact. After an abnormally thorough examination of the damage, she asked, "What were you doing anyway?"

"I was _trying_ for a little sympathetic companionship," he muttered, "Thanks for queering my pitch."

"In the back of a cab?" Molly replied. She gave him one more - unnecessary - pinch before withdrawing her hands from his face. "You're fine. And you've been watching too much porn if you think you've got any chance of a backseat quickie."

He wanted to tell her, wanted to explain to her about his dream. But he couldn't. She'd made it abundantly clear she wasn't interested in hearing more from him tonight.

An uncomfortable silence settled between them as the cab sped along at an annoyingly legal rate of speed. Sherlock focused his attention out the window and silently cursed Aarti's cautious driving.

"This isn't the way to Baker Street," he harped. "Where are we going?"  
The question was rhetorical. He knew full well. And he wasn't at all unhappy about it. "Clapham," she responded flatly.

Another several minutes passed before she spoke. "Why'd you let us get all the way to Baker Street without telling me about your flat?" Molly didn't wait for his response, launching full throttle into her lecture, "Had to find out from the boys opening the shop that Mrs. Hudson's camped out at Mrs. Turner's until the reno's finished! And John took Rosie home, for obvious

reasons! What were you going to do, then? Huh? Just crawl back up to your flat and sleep amongst the debris? Honestly, Sherlock, you have no concept —"

"— Well gee whizz Miss Hooper," he turned toward her and drawled, mocking her irritation in his American cowboy accent, "I had a might bit more on my mind but you rest assured, the next time I find out I have a sister, watch three - no four! - men die and nearly loose my best friend, my brother and the woman I love I'll be right sure to inform you of flat upgrades first. Sorry for the inconvenience."

 _He'd said too much._

Bloody hell, this night! He didn't mean to sound petulant. He meant to right his wrong. The dull ache in his chest returned, as did the desire to reach out for her. Instead, he folded his arms across his chest and turned back toward the window. Molly annoyed him during the regular course of their friendship. She saw too much. Of him. It was unnerving.

If this was love, he couldn't understand why John and she rushed, head-long, into it so often. The data made no sense.

Sherlock concentrated on the brightening sky as they crossed the Chelsea Bridge. London was waking up to a light drizzle as he was going to sleep in a thunderstorm.

"I'm taking you home," Molly spoke softly, after a time, as if she didn't want to disturb him."It's too crowded for you to stay at the neighbor's with Mrs. Hudson."

"Yes," he drawled and looked squarely at her. The corner of his mouth kicked up, "I have it on good authority that Mrs. Turner's got several married... _flat mates_."

"And Mrs. Hudson is a former exotic dancer with an Aston Martin and a lodger with a penchant for playing pirate." She didn't fully commit to her smile. Instead, she leaned forward to address the cabbie. "Aarti, I'd like to introduce you to the great Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective and sometimes pirate," she turned back and he was grateful for the light tone in her voice. "You were barely awake, Sherlock, when Aarti helped load you into the cab —"

"— Damsel in distress is sounding alarmingly more accurate," he grunted, remembering her admonishment from earlier at Bart's, but couldn't keep his smirk from widened into a full grin.

"Left turn just here, Aarti, then up on the right. Thank you."

"Yep. You got it. Miss." The cab pulled in front of a neat, terraced Georgian. As they exited, Aarti leaned out the window and motioned back in Sherlock's direction, "You gonna be ok with him, Miss?"

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh, slamming the cab door behind him harder than necessary. "Need I remind you that it was ME who was assaulted by HER?"

Aarti ignored his griping and raised a brow at Molly.

"You mean the damsel in pirate's clothing?" She nodded toward Sherlock, "He doth protest too much. He'll be back to his old self after a good kip."

Entwining her arm though his, she lead the way up the walk. Sherlock felt an unfamiliar flutter in his stomach as they reached the door. Apprehension? Anticipation? _Odd._ He'd been in Molly's flat countless times before, although rarely with her there. He made it a point to use it as a bolthole only when he knew her to be working or on holiday. When he could be alone amongst her things. Sherlock wasn't quite sure why it was important that she not be around... only that he felt more

comfortable about sleeping in her bed, using her bath linens, when he knew she wouldn't be there.

She looked up at him with an almost smile again. As knackered as he was, he could think of nothing beyond coaxing a full grin from her. What would it be like if he stopped right here, at her door, and kissed her? Not on the cheek as he'd done numerous times before. Those chaste pecks were delivered quickly, efficiently, in an effort to pry himself loose, to save himself from drowning and pulling her down with him. He was an addict always in search of the next fix.

 _She deserves better._

But Christ if Sherlock didn't want to hear her gasp in surprise as he pulled her to him, feel her relax against his body and tell her...tell her he was sorry. And not just for the last twelve hours.

 _Tell her he loved her._

As if she'd heard his thoughts, Molly stepped behind him and gave him gentle push through the door. "Go. Up. A kip, a good kick in the arse and - for better or for worse - you'll be yourself again."

He wasn't sure that was the most advantageous of outcomes. —

Sherlock knew Molly's flat almost as well as he knew Baker Street. He'd been surprised by the tidy modernity of it - crisp white and warm charcoal gray softened by touches of violet and smoke blue. And charmed by her collection of rocks, lined atop the mantle, and shadowboxes of taxidermy insects lining the hallway.

Miss Hooper was practical, sentimental, and a woman with her own means.

 _And undressing on the other side of her bedroom door._

The window for taking subsequent actions based upon that data had closed. Probably for the better. For their _friendship._ He needed to erase the image of Molly kicking off her trousers, walking around in her plain cotton knickers.

She had eleven pairs of white, four pink and one incredibly suggestive black lace pair shoved in the back of her chest of drawers.

 _He knew every inch of her flat._

He rushed to occupy his mind. And his hands. He shouted louder than needed in her direction, "Shall I make us some tea?"

Molly mumbled from behind the door but didn't come out. "Right, then," he sighed and went to put the kettle on.  
In the kitchen.

The dull light of rainy London did nothing to soften the blow of being in her kitchen. By reflex, he looked up at the far corner, to where a camera offered him full view of her face just hours earlier. The entire set-up had since been disconnected back at Sherrinford. Greg arranged for the units themselves to be removed in the morning.

It _was_ morning, Sherlock reminding himself.

" _Mourning,_ more accurately," he murmured. "What's that?"

Molly reappeared, barefoot and sporting a plain long-sleeved t-shirt atop a pair of floral pajama bottoms. Her face was scrubbed and her hair loose.

And he was never so grateful for a counter between them.  
"I was...a...," he fumbled, the blood completely draining from his brain. "Em... _Hmmm?_ "

"Sherlock. It's 7:15 in the morning. We both need sleep." Molly pointed back down the hallway from where she'd just emerged. "No tea," she ordered, "Bed. Now."

"That's awfully presumptuous of you, Miss Hooper," he deadpanned, hoping to infuse a bit of levity into the situation and give himself a moment to... collect parts of his anatomy that were responding quite robustly to her unintended suggestion.

He was in no position to walk the short distance without drawing her suspicion. Nor was he in any position to entertain such thoughts. At least not consciously.

At least not now.

 _Not after what you did to her._

"Molly," he started, paused, spread his hands on the counter. They'd been in this position before, earlier this evening. And she'd been rational throughout. In the past, when they'd sparred, she'd yell ferociously or cut him with a much-deserved remark. Or slapped him.

This time, she took great pains not to hurt him. He watched her anger bloom, back at Bart's and in the taxi, expected her to rail against him. Welcomed the punishment. Instead, she informed him that she wasn't discussing the three words wedged between them. Not until they were _both_ thinking and speaking clearly.

That's when it struck him: Molly was well and truly upset with him. For real and most likely forever.

No, not upset.

 _Hurt._

Tonight had hurt her. _He'd_ hurt her. Again.

"You're right. Tea would be a bad idea now," he hesitated, wanting to stay in the kitchen with her, to somehow cleanse it of the damage done. "I'll just go clean up. Thank you, Molly Hooper, for letting me stay here... _tonight_."

" _Today._ Sherlock. It's already today."


End file.
